“Yes.”
“What if I refused to come?”
“Then I'd have an unnecessarily strong wagon.”
Matilda laughed.
Quietly at first.
Then enough that she had to cover her mouth.
Jedodiah smiled.
Fully this time.
It changed his entire face.
Less frightening.
Almost handsome.
No.
Definitely handsome.
That was inconvenient.
Matilda stopped laughing.
“What?”
He asked.
“Nothing.”
“You looked at me strangely.”
“So did you.”
“Fair.”
Wind battered the building.
Somewhere outside, wood cracked.
Matilda looked toward the windows.
“Two days?”
He nodded.
“Maybe three now.”
She sighed.
Then asked:
“Is Black Ridge beautiful?”
Jedodiah looked toward the fire.
“In summer.”
“That wasn't the question.”
He smiled slightly.
“Yes.”
“What does it look like?”
He described it.
A narrow valley beneath black granite cliffs.
Pines.
Aspen groves.
A spring that ran even in winter.
Wildflowers so thick in June that horses sometimes refused to step through them.
Two cabins.
One larger lodge.
A barn.
Old smokehouse.
Stream full of trout.
The road climbed from the south.
Behind the station, Black Ridge rose like a wall.
At sunset, stone turned purple.
Matilda closed her eyes.
Tried to imagine her mother there.